A Visit to Honorhall
by Shadsie
Summary: Constance-Michel was most confused at queries of the lady Nord adventurer in fine clothes that had come asking about her poor, precious children. She was even more confused when said prospective-parent kept staring at the shelf. "You wish to adopt the cheese?" The Dragonborn could only nod an affirmative. What other answer was a devotee of the Lord of Madness to give?


_**Notes:**_ _I don't own Skyrim, obviously, and am not pinching any money from Bethesda Games by writing fanfiction. It can't be any worse than some of the in-game lore-books! Thus far, the only part of the Elder Scrolls series I've had any experience playing is Skyrim and so only know the lore from that. This is a short-fic based upon jokes that my husband and his nephew (whom I borrow the game from) uttered while I was playing Stasia – my Nord-Dragonborn with a perpetually-pissed-off face whose hobbies include alchemy, battleaxes and playing chicken with mammoths. I did not think I needed to know any more about the lore than what I know from the game and a little bit of Wiki-walking for this little piece, but I give apologies in advance if I unintentionally mess up anything._

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 **A VISIT TO HONORHALL**

 **A Skyrim short fanfiction**

The Dragonborn, Stasia, adjusted her fine hat. It was very kind of Balamund to offer her a place to change out of her smoke-kissed leather armor after watching him work the forge. She had been there to discuss the status of the fire-salt fetching quest he'd put her up to and to buy any iron ingots he could spare. She still had so much work to do on her homestead outside of Falkreath. It seemed like the personal quest for iron that she had set herself upon was never ending. It was almost as bad as the quest for salt.

She was in Riften, however, for a much more important goal. This is the reason why she donned the fine clothes. They were warm enough – with their fine stitches and quilting – but Stasia disliked them. She found it too easy to imagine some bandit gutting her with a sword without at least a bit of good hard leather or metal studding on her person. Vampire attacks happened with an unsettling frequency in this city and the damned things always had an easier time draining blood through fabric than through leather and metal. Such were the concerns of an adventurer.

These worries had not stopped her, however, that one time she'd gotten the inexplicable urge to strip to her underclothes and to run across the tundra outside of Whiterun to outpace a wild hare and punch it to death with her bare fists.

This was how Stasia knew that she had been called to be a devotee of Sheogorath before she'd even met the guy. The fine clothes were a gift from him and it was taking all of her willpower not to dance about in them singing one of the songs she'd learned at the Bard's College at the top of her lungs. It was bad enough that the guards were watching when she'd been inspecting all of the trash barrels in town and gladly putting moldering cabbage into her travel bag for future soup-making. Hey! That stuff was still good! Soft city-folk…

She'd Wabbajack them good if they looked at her too funny. She was not a talking grapefruit! She had the Wabbajack in her pack - In her pack, tucked away out of sight so as not to cause a fright… perhaps she'd turn a vampire into a chicken tonight if they attacked by pale moonlight…

As it was, she was on her way to Honorhall Orphanage. She'd been there before. The children there loved her. They loved her because she had done a great service for them. It had been a filthy job, but every city needed good trash-disposal. It surprised Stasia that the old bat hadn't pissed off Maven Black-Briar at some point, sources of funding aside. Maven was an easy-enough person to anger. If she had, the problem probably would have taken care of itself.

All Stasia had wanted when she'd made her first visit was to drop off a little donation – something of an atonement before the gods for some of the things she'd had to do to survive as a traveler, that and she just had a soft spot for kids. Instead she was turned away, but not before hearing the children's keeper belittle and threaten them in what apparently was a daily morning speech in which she demanded their by-rote thankfulness for her giving them a roof at all; with the promise of kicking them out into the street when they came of age and their usefulness to her ended.

The old matron, Grelod, had demanded her to leave the day when she'd returned and when she'd followed the children out to the play-yard. Not much play was going on under that daughter-of-a-hagraven's watchful eye. The kids were huddled together in quiet whispers that afternoon. Stasia had guessed by the fear in their eyes and the subtle limp displayed by one of the boys that, perhaps, they'd tried to take care of their own problem before – but hadn't been successful. Stasia had spoken to the runaway in Windhelm who was taking a proactive stance. She'd decided to take the job upon herself rather than let him wait upon a professional.

She'd strode right up to Grelod under the guise of "having a talk" and had made swift and brutal work stabbing her though the chest and back with a small dagger. The children had erupted in cheers and danced. Stasia had taken a moment to glare at them and to muster up her deepest, darkest voice to address them.

"Tell anyone it was me and…. I'll eat your hearts!"

They'd merely clapped and laughed, reveling in their newfound freedom.

"Oh, we won't tell!" the girl had said. "Whether or not you want our hearts or not! Grelod is dead! Thank you! Thank you!"

"I eat dragon souls," Stasia had replied, in all seriousness.

"Oh, suuuure you do!"

Alright, which one of those boys had the smart mouth?

"Oh, we know better than to get the Dark Brotherhood on our bad side!" one of the other boys assured.

"But I'm not in the Dark…" Stasia had tried to explain.

"Nevermind! You need to get out of here!" the girl wisely encouraged. "You don't want to get arrested, do you?"

Stasia had made quick work of slipping away from the orphanage and ditching the bloody dagger. She'd heard the assistant, Constance-Michel scream. She was pretty sure the children were still cheering and singing silly songs as she made her way out of Riften. When she had returned to give a donation later, Constance-Michel did not treat her with any suspicion. Had the steel helmet she'd worn back then really hidden her face that well? One of the boys – Samuel, she was sure that was his name – had winked at her. They were keeping her secret. Stasia learned that all of them were a lot happier with Constance-Michel in charge. She was actually allotting the funds and the donations the group home received to their care and was giving them full meals. They still had chores, but nothing beyond the loads expected of children and there were no more whippings. Each of them longed for "real homes," however – except maybe that one poor boy who was sure that his stay here was temporary and his parents were coming back for him.

This was an unlikely prospect with what Stasia had seen with the war beyond the gates of Riften…

She'd come into enough fortune of late – mostly theft and hit jobs on bandits and favors done for jarls – to build herself a manor-home that was coming together well. She'd decided from the beginning to create a children's' room and help one of these kids. All of them were in on a conspiracy and one bloody hand had to shake another, right?

And so, Stasia found herself in her finest clothing – a gift from the Daedric Lord of Madness for helping him psychoanalyze a long-dead king – ready to present herself as a decent member of society to the new orphanage-matron in order to acquire a strong young child whom she could train up to become an adorable little warrior.

Was this crazy? Yeah. She was hardly ever home unless she was working on the place or hauling hunted meat back to the kitchen. She'd yet to even acquire a proper housecarl – The Jarl of Falkreath needed her to do a few more favors for him before he'd give up one of his servants.

Still, she was a new recruit in the Thieves Guild. A child who was already "in" with her on a conspiracy of murder was likely one whose little hands and little form would be good to help in thieving jobs.

Maybe she was just lonely and wanted someone to tell her mammoth-hunting stories to. Yes, the Wabbajack that was in her pack had her back for turning mammoths into hares and making the giants beware… When was she going to try it on a dragon? Perhaps she'd get a strong-scaled flagon?

She definitely needed someone to pass down the art she'd discovered for punching bunnies down to.

Stasia made her way to the home and sat down with Constance-Michel, who was delighted that someone who looked so well-to-do was interested in taking one of the children into "a real home." She seemed unfazed even when Stasia admitted that her "career," such as it was, was as an adventurer – a dangerous occupation. Michel seemed desperate – perhaps a bit too much like someone wanting to give away puppies for Stasia's taste, but the warrior knew that she meant well. Even a semblance of sanity in a child's life for a while was something to strive for. Perhaps any kid she'd adopted would come back here in less than a year's time. No… Stasia had split too many skulls thus far for that. She was determined to get gray hair before she went on her way to Sovngarde.

She was encouraged to talk to each of the children. Stasia looked around, her nose catching the aroma of the pottage on the pot in front of the fire in the main bedroom. The girl, Runa, sweetly offered that she was good at chores. Francois merely wanted a better home in which to wait for the parents who would probably never come for him. Samuel had been there forever. All of their stories tugged at Stasia's heart-strings. After some time, she turned to Constance-Michel. Despite wanting to save them all, the Nord warrior was sensible enough to know that she could only afford to care for one adoptee at this time.

She had found the perfect candidate.

She could feel the Wabbajack in her pack quivering with excitement. Her fine clothing itched.

"There he is!" Stasia said, pointing to a tall shelf.

"What, pray-tell?" asked Michel.

"There, right there! Look at that bright, healthy skin! How strong he must be! And just the perfect age!"

Constance-Michel made a small, confused noise. Stasia pointed to the shelf again. "There! There is the child I wish to adopt!"

"You wish to adopt the cheese?" Michel asked, pondering the large round cheese wheel that was resting upon the indicated shelf.

"Yes!" Stasia exclaimed. "I am here to adopt the cheese!"

"You cannot be serious," Honorhall's caretaker complained.

Ways that Cheese could work around her house danced through Stasia's mind at the moment. That strong, stinky child could be paired with meat. Perhaps with little-sister Bread, freshly baked in the oven she'd recently built.

She'd definitely be the only person in Nordic history with the boldness to venture into an orphanage to adopt a wheel of cheese. It would, to be certain, be better than stealing it off the shelf as she was tempted to do. She could not do that right in front of the children. Stasia may not have been caught for murder, but she knew that the guards in any of Skyrim's major cities were sticklers about throwing you in the can if they caught you with sticky-fingers.

There was a long pause. Stasia drummed her fingers on the dining room table. Constance-Michel let out a frustrated sigh from the seat beside her.

"We only adopt-out children here, M'lady."

"Alright, alright, I will consider it," Stasia, at last, said. "I cannot say that I am not a little disappointed."

Her clothing stopped itching. It seemed like the moment of madness had passed.

She spoke with the children again.

"My name is Hroar!" one boy excitedly told her. "It's after the sound a lion makes – at least that's what my mother told me. I want to grow up to be big and strong like a lion."

Oh, that child had given her a speech most cheesy! After talking with him a little longer, Stasia smiled. "I have a home in Falkreath and a bedroom prepared for you. You are welcome to it, son."

The boy ran to pack up his things, the other children chattering after him – half in excitement, half in jealousy.

"Oh, thank you!" Constance-Michel told her. "Do treat him well. All of my children have been through an awful lot. I trust that with your… sense of humor… that he will be happy."

"Of course. I hope whatever escort you plan to arrange can get him over the roads safely?"

"Once you journey home, it will be as if he appeared there by magic!" Constance assured.

Stasia smiled, her eyes going back to the wheel on the shelf. "If you do not mind, I have another mouth at home to feed. I am also taking the cheese."

….

And so, Hroar lived happily with his new mother in the manor house by the lake in the wilds near Falkreath. He fished and fought the skeevers that invaded the basement. His "Ma" would disappear for days at a time and come back home with presents for him and interesting new weapons as well as crazy stories about hunting bears and killing dragons. Hroar did not know why Stasia had a tendency to pat her belly and burp when recounting the dragon-tales, but he learned not to question it, nor did he question the stories of how the Wabbajack that she carried in her pack allowed her to turn mammoths into hares and chickens only for them to turn back and chase her down until she'd outpaced them.

Her dagger had cut through Grelod's breast like butter. She found much better pleasure sitting at the table with her son instructing him in how to properly cut the cheese. 

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**End.**

 **Shadsie, 2017.**

 _The story of how I adopted Hroar on one of my files, pretty much. Bless "ArkNorth" and "Slagpit" for making random comments that turn into stupid little stories while we watch each other play video games. I'd taken to stealing cheese wheels from random houses I'd break into and any dungeons I found them in right around the time I'd decided I wanted a fictional kid. The random comment from the peanut-gallery happened, cue laughter and an inside joke that will never die. At least I didn't subject you to our idea for a bardic band; "Temporary Puppy."(I won't ask you not to ask, I might actually reply to answer that one). Blame Sheogorath._


End file.
